The Spatula
by Meelu the Bold
Summary: Vanessa character study and estrogen bomb all rolled into one. We need more blanket scenarios anyway. VanessaxInnes.


Vanessa chewed on her lip, a bad habit of hers that she could not quit. A lock of green hair fell into her eyes and she pushed it away with fingers as mobile as logs. Her back felt sore against the stone wall from sitting up so long and her toes were ice.

"You look nervous," Innes commented cheerily, giddy from a combination of blood loss and the semi-narcotic effect of the elixir Vanessa had poured down his throat half an hour beforehand. It was a good sign, sort of. A half an hour ago, the Prince of Frelia would have been coughing up grey squishy bits on her shoulder. As it was, Innes was draped over her like a scarf, leeching off of her body heat. She'd strung up a wide variety of clothing between stalagmites to dry.

"No, not in the least," Vanessa lied, tugging at the edge of the blanket. "Who do you think I am? A nervous . . . Nelly?"

She regretted voicing that gem almost as instantly as the spatula metaphor, a verbal blunder made over a half a year ago in the War of Stones. Words were not the forte of a woman who spoke primarily in spears and swords.

"Vanessa Windbloom, Pegasus Knight First Class, Captain of the 'Lighthoofs.' I was the one to promote you," Innes replied instantly, leaning his head in the dip between her shoulder and her neck and closing his eyes peacefully. "Vicious Vanessa. Nervous Nelly, I believe, is an officer in the fifth wing."

She tensed, feeling far out of bounds and _way_ out of her league. As far as she was concerned, her league consisted of Dennis, the army cook, who was now considering quitting, and lazy bones Forde from Renais, who was threatening to move next door _if he had to_. Neither were very promising candidates. But neither of them called her by the silly moniker Syrene insisted on, either. "It'll be fun," she had said. "It'll really bring morale right up to the surface." No, the only thing that fiasco had brought up was a couple dozen thesauruses and a lot of alliteration. And, now, it brought up the blood to her already bright red cheeks. Good job, big sis. Score one more for the morale boosters. A real kick in the right direction.

"Um, no one really calls me that . . ." she stuttered, looking at the dimly lit wall of the cave. Moss _glowed_ in the mountains. It was weird. There were all sorts of tunnels in Frelia, left over from some mountain civilization or another. This was one of them. She distracted herself from the weight, warmth, and overall nearness of something that wasn't her eiderdown or her cat.

Vanessa missed her cat. He was warm and cuddly and drastically less condescending than Innes. Of course, the Prince was in no condition to be condescending. Or any sort of descending. They had pretty much hit the bottom together.

"You're not vicious?" Innes asked, sounding as though he was truly surprised. That was the elixir again. It messed with your brain as it fixed your innards. Moulder said it was to distract from the discomfort of having your bones rapidly rejoin and your kidneys pull themselves safely inside your abdominal cavity.

"No, not r-really," Vanessa admitted uncomfortably, shifting underneath him. She repressed a shiver, feeling the tickle of Innes' muffled voice against her neck. Syrene would laugh to pieces if she saw this. This was _supposed _to have been an easy, going-home flight. No one expected monsters to pour out of Valni like that, especially not the lucky Mogall that had exchanged blows with Prince Innes, both of which connected. Innes was the luckier of the two in the end; the Mogall died and he had not.

The war ended and the Crown Prince of Frelia chose now to be mortally wounded in combat. Bullseye for irony, eh? Vanessa wondered if someone was looking for them. Probably. Probably Syrene. Salutary Syrene. Vanessa never understood why her sister had chosen something like that. She'd never done anything good for Vanessa's health.

"You're cold?" Innes asked, breaking the silence to mistake her reactions. Vanessa nearly jumped.

"No, not at all," she lied again, and flexed her toes to make sure they were attached and working still.

"No, you're cold. Why aren't you wearing anything?" Innes asked groggily, lifting his head from her shoulder. The elixir must have been wearing off.

"I'm wearing something," Vanessa argued.

"Not much of something," Innes replied briskly, briefly eyeing the thin white strap of a thinner white shift. Vanessa thanked the Gods that she'd held off Syrene's needle well enough that there was only lace at the hem, hidden beneath the emergency blanket. There was a baby Pegasus embroidered in the corner—Syrene again. Vanessa grimaced. Syrene seemed to be foiling her every attempt to be the tomboy that she'd been born to be. _Born to be._ There was nothing wrong with a blaring lack of femininity, was there? She wore a skirt, right? That was enough, right? Now that the Prince sounded a little more like himself, the situation only worsened. "What happened?"

"You got hurt and I flew us down here to—"

"Take off all your clothes?" Innes interjected, his voice definitely laden with the dream-like quality of the elixir. He shuffled around a little, brushing against various bits of squishy Vanessa skin. "All mine, too. Wait, no, not entirely . . ."

"We landed a creek," she sputtered mechanically. Vanessa froze entirely, becoming almost completely rigid. Innes sighed and leaned against her collarbone this time, his hair brushing her face.

"Well, a man can only be so lucky," he lamented, contentedly resting against her. Vanessa would have taken that moment to die, if she could have.

"Ah ha ha! Didn't King Joshua often lament the same thing?" Vanessa asked stiffly, her voice thoroughly cracking. Smooth, Nessie. Goddammit. Why could she not sound as collected and calm as Syrene or be as open and outspoken as the Princess?

Innes laughed anyway. "He does, doesn't he? Cheating old dog . . ."

He looked up a moment at her, drawing away. Vanessa's first instinct was to hold him down and keep him from moving; the second one was to plaster herself on the other side of the shallow cave. The two battled it out within her and as usual, the part that said _Hold still and don't do anything and maybe you'll be alright_ took over and formed its own dictatorship in her muscles. Its _own dictatorship_.

If there was one thing she was _really _good at, it was metaphors. She was damn good at metaphors. No one was better at metaphors than Nessie Windbloom. She could simile you silly. Alliterate you . . . crazy? Maybe not alliterate. Definitely not alliterate. That one might only be happening by chance.

Innes kissed her.

Thankfully, she didn't explode. Usually, when she got to this part, either that happened or Syrene would come rushing in with an army of squirrels or something equally wake-up worthy.

Syrene wasn't coming. _She wasn't coming_. Vanessa hadn't woken up yet. She wondered when Innes would—or at least be able to do the thing where he could stand upright unaided and whatnot. Syrene still wasn't here. There weren't any squirrels. (Or octopi, but that had been a really weird dream all on its lonesome.)

"Sir?" she said. It was the first thing she could think of. Titania whinnied for the first time making her opinion known. Vanessa's old companion was probably laughing her little peggy head off from her mossy bed.

"Nobody get the spatula," Innes said contentedly, resting his head on her shoulder.

**..0..**

**Apparently I don't like plot today. Booo down with plot. Fic about Vanessa without the hassle of, you know, thinking.**


End file.
